Twisted
by Lexie Jayne
Summary: Twisted relationship between two X5s SK


AN: A quick stand alone. I hope everyone enjoys it. Reviews are beloved and cherished forever. Syl and Krit belong to James Cameron and the Egg Guy. I make no money off this fic, so there is no reason to sue :D  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
She stands on the curb, her hip jutting provocatively. Her blonde hair blows around her face in the warm summer wind.   
  
She wears a short black leather mini skirt which moulds itself to her body like a second skin. In the rain, people have to look twice because it looks more like paint. Her top is red and lacy, you can see through it to her black bra; the only decent bra she owned. The rest were torn up or had no under wire.  
  
Her boots are black leather, to her knees, and then there is sheer black tights vanishing under her skirt.  
  
Her make up is paler than she actually is, and she has so much mascara on, it makes her eyes look sticky. With paler foundation, shiny red lipstick and black eye makeup, she looks almost sickly; there is a fine line between ethereal and sick-looking, and she has achieved it. A delicate looking prostitute; an oxymoron girl. Child of the night.   
  
Her hair is fluffy and lose around her face; silky blonde strands. She has a tiny purse around her, black sequined. She stole it from an old lady at the opera when she was fourteen. It had a bit of money, a cigarette lighter and a few cigarettes.   
  
She never works on the same streets. She's seventeen, been doing this since she was twelve. Five years, twelve major cities, thousands of towns and billions of streets in her mind. It was very rare that Syl worked on the same street twice, specially in small towns.   
  
But this was Los Angeles; Hollywood Hills. Like in the movie, 'Pretty Woman'. Except, the street was more beat up, and trashed. The competition was fierce, and Syl was glad she was in possession of 'a great rack', as Ben had once told her.   
  
Smoking oozed confidence, Syl knew, but tonight she couldn't bring herself to put one in her mouth; the filthy taste and heavy-headed feeling she got. Wasn't worth it. She was the best around, at selling sex; her body. Cigarette or not.   
  
One man wearing an Armani suit approaches her, smiling secretively. Another in Versace from the opposite direction. Syl flipped her hair and looked at the cracked pavement.  
  
Then, before Versace and Armani can argue over her, bribe her, a black Jeep pulls up in front of her. Syl barely needs to look at the driver. She merely swings open the door and gets in. The black Jeep. Always saves her. Syl can deal with having sex with random guys, who had wives and kids at home, who saved for weeks to bed someone who looked like her.  
  
But this was special.  
  
Syl glanced sideways at the driver. "Thanks," is all she can managed, still mortally embarrassed, even though he sees her like this once every three weeks.  
  
"My pleasure." He grins at her, one hand resting affectionately against her thigh. "Tissues are in the dashboard."  
  
He hates the thick make up. Syl hates looking at the silvery scar that runs from her right ear, along her cheekbone. From when the dog at Manticore tried to rip her face from her skull. The doctors had to stick the right side of her face back to the flesh of her neck and that scar never fully faded.   
  
It makes Syl remember the whole night, seeing that horrible silver scar on her face, make her feel sick.   
  
"It's okay," he said reassuringly. "You're beautiful; you look like crap with all that make up on you."  
  
"Thanks," Syl smiled up at him. He took his eyes off the road, long enough to give her a look that made her blush.   
  
"We're here; nicer than my old place," Krit joked, as they pull up outside an apartment building.  
  
"Doesn't matter," I shrug, balling the dirty tissues up in her hand.  
  
We go to his apartment. It's messed up; his clothes everywhere, CDs, men's magazines and cardboard boxes of stuff Krit's collected over the years.  
  
Krit leant in to kiss her, and Syl didn't push him back. He's the only guy Syl knows who can peel off her leather skirt in under fifteen minutes. In fact, Krit was the only guy who could get the outfit off in three minutes with out tearing the tights and stuff.   
  
His hands were down her top, and she was unbuttoning his shirt. Felt good. She wasn't doing this because she was late with the rent or her cell phone bill was two hundred dollars over what she could afford.  
  
She could enjoy this. Maybe she even loved Krit.   
  
He pulls away from her, and grabs her hand to kiss it. Leading her to the bedroom, he calls her Kitten, Princess, Love…  
  
Later. There's no sticky-ness, no awkwardness and none of that silence. She's snuggled against his shoulder, and he's tracing shapes on her stomach.  
  
"You can stay with me, Kitten. I'd like that," He says, leaning over to press a kiss to her stomach; she has a red belly button ring there. Got it for her sixteenth birthday.   
  
"No, I need to get back to it," she says, her hands running through his curly hair. "Besides, Zack wouldn't like together."  
  
"Screw Zack," Krit's head on the pillow next to her, kissing her fingers. "Think about us, Princess."  
  
"Maybe we could. Just not yet," Syl says. "I like it like this."  
  
He is sceptical. But she smiles and kisses him softly again. "I need to go," she says softly. "Might be able to make some money tonight." She rolls over, preparing to reach for her clothes, and spend twenty minutes wriggling into them. He grabs her wrist and pulls her back in bed.  
  
"Stay tonight. If you need the cash that badly, I'll pay you." It's a statement that makes Syl feel guilty and dirty but she brushes off that feeling and leans back against him. She sleeps.  
  
Krit spends hours just watching her sleep, running his fingers through her hair. He should get her out of her line of 'work.' They could have a future together, he knows that. But she has to be free, independent; she has to make it on her own. He knows he should go tell Zack Syl isn't just a stripper, but a prostitute. But he can't. It's a Krit-n-Syl thing they have. The unspoken agreement hangs - don't tell Zack the truth.  
  
He presses a gentle kiss to her temple, running a finger down the scar and sleeps. Syl wakes up early, wrapped in the feeling of warmth and security. Their fingers are laced loosely together and she doesn't really want to go, but it's the easiest thing to do. Doesn't matter how far she runs from him and his promises, Krit always tracks her down.  
  
And when Krit wakes up, Syl has gone. 


End file.
